Perchance to Dream
by Rach L
Summary: "To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream..."


Perchance to Dream  
by Rach L.  
rach_jiwon@hotmail.com  
  
Season/spoiler: Takes place in the season finale. Takes a weird turn as an AU story.   
Category: Heavy angst. Beka-centric.   
Summary: "To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream..." -Shakespeare.  
Disclaimer: Characters don't belong to me. The story does.  
Note: I apologize for this story in advance. It's definitely not a happy one. I don't really know what came over me again...  
  
/ / indicates thoughts.  
  
  
***  
'Once upon a time,  
I dreamt I was a butterfly...  
Suddenly I awoke.  
Now, I do not  
know whether I was then a man dreaming I was  
a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly dreaming  
that I am a man.'  
- Chuang-Tzu  
***  
  
  
"Okay, *what* do you want?"  
  
It seemed like sleep was the only solution for her constant headaches, cravings, and all the other problems she presently had in her life. It meant she hated, loathed, detested being waken up in the middle of sleep for *any* reasons.   
  
So it was only natural for her to spring up from her bed and hatefully glare at the figure in the middle of her bedroom.   
  
"Do you have a foggiest idea what time it is, or how inappropriate it is for you to drop in unannounced like this?" Beka yelled, irritated. She was *not* gonna lose her sleep over him again. It had happened so many times already, and she lost the count.  
  
"I know," a casual reply came from somewhere in her dark room. She suspected that he sitted himself on her armchair, hiding his shape in the shadow.  
  
"Then you must know you're supposed to be dead, right? Just like you were yesterday night, and the night before, and the night before that?"  
  
"So you've said." She could hear the amusement in his voice.  
  
/So you've said..?! Ugh, that's it./ "I need to sleep. Ever heard of the word?" she snapped, "You might not need it, because I haven't a clue what the beauty requirement is for dead folks these days, but I'm clearly alive, and I don't need *you* take away what little time I have for my precious sleep. So goodbye, Dylan. May I never see you again in my bedroom!" She pulled up her blanket over her head and shut her eyes. If she kept ignore him for a while, he would *have* to go away, right? That was at least how her dreams--hallucinations, whatever--went every night. He *had* to go away.  
  
But he didn't.  
  
After a few minutes of feeling strange itches in her chest, she relented and sprung up from the bed again. "Okay, I get it now. You have a reminder course prepared for me, is that it? Yes, I made a fatal mistake of promising you that *I* will try restore the Commonwealth. I thought I was gonna die with you at the time by freaking Magogs, so I didn't even *think* I'd come out unscathed to keep the promise."   
  
Actually, she came out very scathed, but at least alive. Dylan didn't.   
  
/And *that*, ladies and gentlemen, is the problem./   
  
"Okay, tell you what," she decided to negotiate the terms, for the sake of her quickly destabilizing sanity, "Since I made that promise for whatever reason, I swear I will try to keep that promise. There you go. You happy? Now you can just merrily go back to the Land of the Dead, where all the nice Highguards and wayists go. Say hi to Rev for me on the way, will you?"   
  
She thought that should've been enough to send him back to wherever wracked up part of her mind he had crawled out from, but the voice only replied quietly, "That's not why I'm here."   
  
"Then what? What?" She sat up straight, and ran her fingers across her blond hair. She didn't want to imagine how her hair would look like at this point. "You know, you were a pain in the ass when you were alive, but even more so now when you're gone. Why don't you just live me the *heck* alone? If you want to lecture me and tell me not to take any Flash--which I haven't, despite various *very* strong temptations--and take good care of Rommie--which I *do*--then you needn't bother. The message has been well-received already. Now, please, just go away. People in the Land of the Living need to get some sleep."  
  
He moved a little closer to her, and she now could see his face clearly. For a second, she feared his face would be covered with blood and slashed, like his face she'd last seen. /Oh great. Now Dylan's going to replace Dad's dying face as a component of my newly resurrected nightmare-fest. Oh, Freud would have a ball with this one./ Freud would've told her that the projection of her dad complex into Dylan couldn't be healthy, blah, blah, blah, on and on and on. Since when had Dylan emerged as another dad figure in her life? Okay, certainly there were certain resemblances, like she wanted their approvals more than anything else, and the fact that they were both *dead*.  
  
But his eyes that were staring into hers now were free of any blood, and they glittered with mischief as they had once been in good old days. He *looked* so real, and she almost thought that she may have dreamed the whole ordeal. Maybe he was still alive, there had been no freakin' Magog attack, there were no hole breaches in Andromeda's body, Rev hadn't been killed by his fellow Magogs, Harper hadn't been traumatized after facing his demons in a severely disadvantaged situation, Trance was in her old cheery self without a guilt problem, and Tyr hadn't become...a host for the said Magogs.   
  
If only she could dream on like that.  
  
"You know," she finally remarked, "For a supposed ghost of some kind, you look remarkably fine."  
  
His grin was still there. So was the amused voice. "Well, have you considered a possibility that might be because I'm *not* a ghost?"  
  
She was tempted to believe that, she really was. But she knew better. "I have, actually, and the answer is still no," she spoke in a resolved voice, "You're dead no matter how many times I try to think through this, and if this is a very warped way of my brain telling me I'm feeling guilty, I'm certain there has to be a better way than interrupting *my* sleep. So please, Dylan--and I say this with affection--get lost!"  
  
"Well, sorry Beka, but that's not why I'm here." He didn't look that sorry.  
  
That was it. She angrily kicked off the blanket and stood up, "Then *why* are you here, dammit? Give me one good reason, because I swear to God, or whatever that's out there, I'll kick your ass, ghost or no ghost!"  
  
He stood up too, painstakingly slowly in her perspective, and leaned down toward her. He stopped just an inch away from her face. "Because of this."  
  
"This? This what? What about this--"  
  
She was shut up most effectively as his hands quickly cupped her face and his lips pressed onto hers.  
  
/Okay, wow, um, now, this...this never happened before./ She was instantly lost in the sensation. This sudden development wasn't entirely unpleasant, since she couldn't remember having a warm body close to hers --correction, a warm body that wasn't a Magog's-- for ions, except for the near-miss incident with Tyr that she wasn't going to think about at this moment. Of course, Dylan, dead or alive, was a babe in anyone's dictionary.  
  
And that particular thought stopped her dead. "Oookay," she forced herself to untangle herself from his grip that felt pretty nice and warm--which wouldn't be the case if he was a ghost, right? /...Right./ Plus, his lip felt exactly the same as the last time she'd kissed him just to piss off the Royal Nietzschean Princess person. This wasn't good. It really meant she was going crazy.  
  
"That was...uh, nice," she stepped back, her face flushed. "So, um, did you come back for a good-bye kiss? Right, well, that's really a nice gesture, really, but you didn't have to, you know? Because it wasn't necessary, since I'd still think fondly of you, with or without that very...uh, nice kiss." /Wke up now, wake up...oh crap./ "But you see, this dream, hallucination, whatever, is mine," she forced a grin through her clenched teeth, "And since it is, I'd like it very much if you would just Get. The. Hell. Out. from my mind!"  
  
Dylan looked almost solemn, as if he was in his command deck and trying to think of a way to get them out of trouble as he had so many times before. This was Dylan she recognized. Then he did something *extraordinarily* freaky--he reached out his fingers and touched her hair. "Why?" he asked almost innocently.  
  
"Because," she desperately tried to think of an answer, which was a hard task with his fingers playing with her hair as a fine distraction tactic. "Because it's not right."  
  
"Not right?" he looked even more amused now, "What's there to be right about? I'm dead, you said."  
  
"Yes." At that, she calmed down instantly, as if someone had poured a bucket of ice water on her. "And you would have never done this when you were alive."  
  
"That's a little presumptuous of you, isn't it?" Dylan quickly snapped, "Captain Valentine, how do you know if I didn't want to do this all along? Can you honestly tell me you never wanted to--" he gestured the bed with a playful smile, a smile that the real Dylan Hunt--otherwise a brave man but someone who couldn't even look at her straight when she came out from a shower with only a towel around her body--would never have dared to try on her, "You know? With me?"  
  
/Oh, for Christ's sake. Freud would *really* have a ball with this one./ "Well, we'll never know now, would we?" she replied as coolly as she could muster.   
  
"That's where you are wrong," he closed the distance between them with one big stride, "We now have a way to know."  
  
/Okay, *now* would be a very good time to wake up./ There must've been something *really* wrong with the dinner she had, because this dream was more psychotic than usual. Way more psychotic. "Andromeda!" she shouted desperately as she backpedaled in sync with his approach, "Just wake me up now, please? Or hollar, send an electrical vibe through every moving object here, depressurize this room, or *something*!"  
  
Dylan stopped on his tracks. "What are you afraid of?" he demanded almost angrily, "If this is your dream, there's nothing wrong about being honest with yourself."  
  
"Oh great," she exclaimed incredulously, putting her hands up, "Even *now* you gotta be so full of yourself, you self-righteous ego maniac! Is that what you think? That I used to have a--" the word felt repulsive in her mouth, "--*crush* on you?"   
  
"No," his voice was quiet, "That you were afraid of me."  
  
Her anger was instantly deflated, and she suddenly felt cold. "...Why would I be?"  
  
"Only you can answer that question."  
  
Freud, Freud, Freud. She hated him, whoever he might have been, for this. She hated for him for making her think. She hated him for forcing her to face her demons.  
  
Dylan stood an arm's away from her, and did not move any closer. "If you don't want this, just tell me."  
  
She was trembling, she realized. "Then what?" her voice was hoarse.  
  
A self-conscious shrug, a little self-deprecating smile. The gestures she'd been so used to see from him. The gestures she'd missed the most. "Then I'll probably vaporize into the thin air. And you'll go back to your sleep." He stared into her eyes, and she thought she saw disappointment in them. "Do you want to?"  
  
/And forget everything?/  
  
She remembered the way her heart pounded as she rushed down to get the Magogs off from him. She remembered the way he was lying on the corridor, lifeless. She remembered his soulless eyes staring up at her. She remembered screaming. She remembered all too clearly.   
  
She could relive the moment all she wanted, but it'd never change.  
  
"No," she whispered, "No."  
  
She grabbed his arms, and rushed to kiss him with a frightening intensity. She couldn't lose him again. This was stupid, idiotic, and probably would've never happened if he was alive, but she wanted this. She needed this.  
  
In truth, she wasn't all that compelled to wake up.   
  
He kissed her back. He caressed her face gently, just the way she'd imagined he would, and held her tight as if he'd never let go.  
  
She didn't know when she broke down sobbing. It was as if a dam she'd built in her mind was now breaking down. "God, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry Dylan. I should've saved you. I should've reacted sooner. God, I should've backed you up better like I promised you. I should've--"  
  
His hands cupped her face, and his fingers glazed over her lips. "It's not your fault. It was never your fault."  
  
She could almost laugh. "So *that*'s why you came? To tell me to forgive myself?"   
  
"Could be," he leaned down and kissed her again. "Or maybe," he said with a mischievous look as he slowly pulled away, "I did want this all along. I don't know. You tell me."  
  
The tears fell, but now they weren't of regret, guilt and pain. They were of relief. "Forgive me," she said.  
  
"There's nothing to forgive." He smiled, almost benignly. And for the first time in a long time, she didn't feel guilty for smiling back. They stayed like that for a long moment, and she almost began to think that maybe, maybe, everything would be okay again.  
  
But she was wrong.  
  
Sudden violent vibrations almost threw her to the the floor. Everything seemed to be shaking, trembling, and breaking down to pieces.  
  
"What's going on? Andromeda?" She looked up frantically. A shiver went down her spine. "Dylan?"   
  
But he wasn't there any more. His hands that had been holding her were now gone, and so was his warm smile.   
  
She was alone in her room.  
  
The floor didn't stop shaking. She vainly tried to hold onto anything that was close to her, but she fell backward, and felt a painful impact on her back.  
  
"Beka!"   
  
Dylan's voice. It seemed like his voice was coming from a place far above, some place else entirely.   
  
"Beka!"  
  
When she opened her eyes again, she was looking up at a gray ceiling, and then his face. But it was different from the one she had been looking at a few seconds ago. His eyes were filled with pure panic, and his face was dark, stained with something...  
  
/Blood./  
  
Her blood.  
  
"Beka, Beka, stay with me!"   
  
His frantic shout was buried in loud pounding noises. Of what, she wondered briefly. She then realized she was lying on Andromeda's corridor, and the smell...she knew what it was. The Magogs'. Their dead bodies were all over the place, and she was in the middle of them, with Dylan tightly grabbing her shoulders as if he couldn't let her go.  
  
It all made sense to her now.  
  
"God, no, please. Please, stay with me. Beka!" Dylan tried to hold on to her with a frantic desperation. His hand touched her face, as if he thought that by holding onto her, he'd be able to tie her to the Land of the Living for a moment longer.  
  
/He doesn't know./ She would laugh at this absurdity, if she could. He didn't know that no matter what he tried, she would die, and there was nothing he could do about it. He didn't know yet that he would now have to go through the process of the pain and guilt that she knew so well.   
  
But she would do her best to spare him of going through *that*.  
  
The pain in her chest was almost paralyzing, but she didn't give into it. She still had a few more things to say. "...It's not your fault."   
  
"Don't say anything Beka," he insisted, still attempting to somehow stop her bleeding, "Trance will get here soon. Everything will be okay. I promise."  
  
He was a pathetic liar.   
  
But hadn't she been one too, not so long ago?  
  
"Dylan," she breathed, "it was never your fault."   
  
"No, goddammit. There has to be something--"  
  
He thought he was responsible for everything, when, in fact, he wasn't. She was sorry for him. She used the last bit of the energy she had to force her hand up to touch his face, and that stopped him cold. He stared at her, his mouth open with shock, his eyes almost blurry.   
  
His skin felt exactly the same as it had before, warm and alive. She was glad.  
  
Whatever he'd seen in her eyes, it seemed that it struck him now that there was nothing he could do. He took her hand, and sank onto the floor almost lifelessly. "Beka..."  
  
She wanted to thank him, tell him it'd been a great ride, that he did his best, that he had kept the promise that he'd be with her every step of the way. She wanted to tell him to take care of her friends, and someday, restore the Commonwealth. But it was too hard even to breathe, and even harder to speak.   
  
So she just smiled. For him.   
  
He might not understand now, but he would. Someday. For now, all she could do was hoping that her smile would've soothed his pain.  
  
She wished him good luck.  
  
Now, she would sleep.  
  
And she would not wake up again.  
  
  
END  
05/22/01  



End file.
